by Logan Belle
“Sorry I’m late,” Gavin said, looking unusually harried and slightly disheveled. He shrugged off his Burberry overcoat and handed it to an attendant.
“No problem. How did it go today?”
“Pretty well,” he said, as they were shown to their table.
“This room is fantastic,” she said. “I can’t believe they change it every few months.”
“I know. I thought they might get complacent and abandon that gimmick after the first year, but they haven’t. I’ve been here a few times, and I have to say the best room is Spring. But this is a close second.”
“I think that’s true of New York in general. Spring is the best time of year, followed closely by fall.”
“I know a lot of people who would debate you on that,” he said.
She read the menu and appreciated the autumnal accents on all of the dishes. She decided on the roasted pumpkin soup with lobster croutons and then the shrimp Cobb for her main. Gavin ordered the fig carpaccio with goat cheese and the roasted chicken with pumpkin pie.
She realized all the food and décor talk was a way of stalling, avoiding the real reason they were having lunch at a fancy restaurant in the middle of the workday. The suspense was killing her, so she decided to bite the bullet.
“About that photo …”
“Are you really a burlesque dancer?”
“Yes,” she said.
“What is that, exactly?”
“Well, it’s a performance art, like any other kind of dancing. Costumes play a big role, and lots of the dancers put a feminist spin on it… .”
“But there’s an element of stripping, right?”
“Yes. But not fully. I mean, I take my costume off but I’m wearing … Look, I feel really uncomfortable talking to you about this.”
“Mallory, I feel bad even having this conversation because typically, I’m not one to judge. And really, I don’t care what you do in your spare time. But people make generalizations, and Marcy Klein depends on you a lot and this shakes her confidence, rightly or wrongly. When I’m running around at court or I’m in a deposition room with you, I can’t worry that the opposing counsel or our clients may be taking you—and, as an extension, me—less seriously because of your, um, other job.”
“I understand,” she said, her stomach sinking.
“I’m not sure what to tell you, except to consider the fact that you might have to make a choice.”
Violet pulled the covers off of her naked body and reached for her iPhone. She scrolled through the images of Billy Barton being ass-fucked by the Burberry model and it made her wet—not because the images were hot, but because they were going to get her what she wanted. Well, at least one thing she wanted.
She placed the phone down and rubbed her clit with her index finger, thinking of the way she’d fucked Poppy LaRue, but instead of Poppy tied up on her bed it was Mallory. What would it take to get Mallory in that position? Some help from Alec, that’s what.
Emboldened by her success last night with Billy Barton, Violet felt she was on a hot streak and dialed Alec’s cell.
“Hello?”
He sounded groggy.
“It’s Violet. Can you hear me? Where are you? It’s so loud.”
“I’m getting on a plane. What do you want?”
“I’m ready for another outing. Think you can find something interesting for us to do tonight?”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“What’s the problem? Too much partying in LA? Did Kendall James wear you out?”
“How did you know about Kendall James?”
“A little birdie told me. A hot little birdie.” Silence on the other end. “So do you want to meet up tonight or what? Mallory might want some entertainment, party pooper.”
“I’ll pass,” he said.
“Are you cranky because I didn’t fuck you, too?”
“Jesus, Violet. It’s a little early in the day for this. I don’t think Mallory has any interest in your games.”
“I think you’d be surprised what Mallory is interested in,” said Violet. “You’re being too hasty in answering for her. I bet she’d be up for a drink. Perhaps you should just stay home this time and let the girls have all the fun. Are you willing to take one for the team, Alec?”
“Mallory and I are the team, Violet. You aren’t even on the bench.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes,” he said.
“We’ll see. Oh—and Alec?”
“What?”
“I can’t wait to taste your girlfriend’s pussy again.”
She hung up and began composing a text to Mallory.
Gavin peered at her over the dessert menu.
“I’m thinking the chocolate cube. What do you say?”
“Sounds great,” she said, though she was too nervous to eat any more food. He hadn’t pressed her further on the issue of her Page Six exposure, but now that dessert was on the way, she had a feeling her less-than-desirable night gig would be back on the table, so to speak. Sure enough, when the dark chocolate square appeared on a silver tray, he turned pensive.
“So, how serious are you about this burlesque career?” Gavin finally said.
“I’m not sure how to answer that,” she said.
“Well, is this a passing hobby or something you plan on doing for a while?”
Mallory swallowed hard.
“To be honest, if you had asked me that a few months ago, I would have told you I was very serious about it. I love performing, but I’m starting to wonder what the endgame is. And I didn’t think I had to know the absolute answer to that, but …”
“I only press you on this because I don’t see how I can keep you on, knowing that you have such a high-profile, edgy nightlife.”
“It’s not usually high-profile—I don’t even use my real name. This was a freak thing because of my friend Bette… .”
He put his hand on hers, and she felt something electric shoot through her. She looked at him in surprise. Oh, my God, I’m actually attracted to him. Truly attracted to him.
“Forgive me if I’m speaking out of line—and this is none of my business except for the part about how it affects the office—but I think you’re brilliant, and it is a terrible waste if you don’t at least consider taking the bar exam.”
Mallory sighed.
“There was a time when I really thought that was what I wanted. Every choice I made in my life was centered on my goal to be a lawyer at a big firm. And then I got the job at Reed, Warner, and I hated it. Every day I dreaded waking up in the morning. I didn’t know how I could be so miserable when I was getting what I’d worked so hard for. So I tried to pretend I wasn’t miserable. And then I failed the bar. My boyfriend said he thought I failed on purpose on some level. I told him that was crazy, but maybe he’s not entirely wrong.”
“Reed, Warner is a tough gig. They burn out more lawyers than not. That culture isn’t for everyone. But the fact that you even got a place there tells me you must be pretty damn good.”
“Thanks,” she said, feeling inexplicably bashful at the compliment.
“Will you at least consider giving law another shot? I think you’d be amazing at family law. My clients love you, and that is so important in this field where emotions run high and the most important things in people’s lives are at stake—their homes, custody of their children. That’s why I am particularly sensitive to the issue of your burlesque career. I don’t want the clients to have less faith in you or to think differently about you in any way. It’s not right that people should generalize because of something like that, but you know that’s human nature.”
“I know,” she said. “And it bothers me to think that Marcy would have less faith in me because she perceives me as being flighty or less serious about my work here because I’m performing at night.”
“Will you at least think about getting back into a legal career? And I don’t mean as a paralegal. You’re too good for that.” And then … W
as it possible? The way he was looking at her—the prolonged eye contact, the quick but unmistakable glance at her lips. It was more than the way a boss looked at his employee.
“I just don’t know,” she said, stalling. Was he attracted to her?
Her phone vibrated in her bag. She wondered if it was yet another person texting or calling about the Page Six photo. Hopefully, word had not yet spread to her mother, who was still clueless about Mallory’s alter ego.
The text was maybe the one bit of news that had the ability to make her feel worse than getting busted by her mom:
Don’t make any plans for tonight. I’ll make it worth your while.—VIOLET.
Mallory’s head filled with an image of Violet’s head between her legs.
“I’m sorry,” she said to Gavin. “What were you saying?”
“Will you consider getting back into law?” Gavin said. “Maybe let this burlesque thing run its course and get serious about your career again.
She looked at the text, then back at Gavin. “Yes,” she said. “I’ll think about it.”
14
Mallory rolled down the cab window, not trusting what she was seeing through the glass. Was that a line down the block?
One street away from the Blue Angel, her phone rang.
“When are you getting here?” said Bette.
“I’m a block away,” she said, looking at the street that housed the Blue Angel. The sidewalk was filled with people. “Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing? Is that a line to get in?”
“Yeah. I attribute it to the Page Six mention, combined with Poppy’s tweeting about my guest appearance tonight. We’re overwhelmed.”
“I’ll be right there.” She told the cab to stop and hurried along the uneven sidewalk in her heels, hoisting her BAE bag onto her shoulder. Inside, her “Heart-Shaped Glasses” costume was folded, along with some documents from work that she needed to read over the weekend. Once again, she’d barely been able to leave work on time. She didn’t mind; the avalanche of reading and research kept her from having too much time to think about her personal life. If it weren’t for her excitement to finally perform her “Heart-Shaped Glasses” routine, she wondered if she would have been able to motivate herself to leave the office at all.
She made her way past the line, and the ticket collector inside the door with the guest list look frazzled.
“Can you believe this?” she said to Mallory.
“No!” she said. “Where’s Agnes?”
She found Bette in the dressing room.
“Where is everyone?”
“Agnes is holding a staff meeting. You’re late.”
“Agnes doesn’t hold ‘staff’ meetings.”
“Well, she does now. She told me she felt she had to address the firing of Violet, and make it clear what she expected in terms of ‘conduct’ on stage and what the Blue Angel stands for in the ‘context of New York burlesque.’ ”
“Interesting,” Mallory said, though in truth, she didn’t find it that interesting. She felt apathetic.
“Are you okay?” Bette said.
“Yeah. Great. I’m excited to see you on that stage tonight.” Mallory began unpacking her makeup.
“It’s going to feel good to be out there. Like breathing again.”
Mallory said nothing, just looked at herself in the mirror. She made no move to begin doing her face, while Bette expertly applied false eyelashes one at a time to the outermost corner of her upper eyelid, then followed around her eye with the mascara wand.
“Why aren’t you getting dressed?” she said, not moving her eyes from the focus on her own reflection. Mallory said nothing. “What’s wrong?”
“My boss found out about the Page Six photo. He’s not too happy about my nightlife.”
“So? What’s he going to do? Fire you?”
“I think he might.”
“Isn’t that what happened last time you were ‘outed’?”
“Yes.”
“And you just found another job. No big deal.”
“So is that what I’m going to do? Just keep losing jobs while I do burlesque at night—which pays next to nothing—and living two lives?” Mallory knew she sounded melodramatic, but the anxiety in her voice was nothing compared to the knot of panic she felt in her gut.
“What are you talking about? You’re not living two lives. You just have to pay the bills. We all do—until we hit it big. Or at least bigger than this.”
“We’re not all cut out to be famous, Bette. You’re different. For me, I’m having serious doubts about where all this is going. Getting this far—performing at all—is a big deal for me. Maybe as far as I’m going to go. I don’t see myself setting out to conquer the world.”
Bette nodded. She put down her mascara wand and turned to Mallory. “It’s good you can be honest with yourself about this. You’re smart, Mallory. And you don’t need me to tell you that if you aren’t willing to do whatever it takes to become famous, there’s no point in doing this except as a hobby. And then no, it’s not worth losing a day job that pays decent money. But I thought you were in it for real. To make a name for yourself.”
“I’m confused. I thought I was, too, but…I don’t know.” She put her head in her arms as the other girls started filing back into the dressing room. They were mostly dressed for the show, and Mallory felt even more tense for being late and behind.
“Hey, Moxie. You missed the meeting,” Poppy said.
“Yeah. What makes you so special?” Scarlett Letter said. Mallory wasn’t sure if she was being serious or not, but in her current frame of mind it sounded like a dig.
“I got here late,” Mallory said. “That’s what makes me special. And now I don’t feel very well, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way, and you can have the stage all to yourself tonight to get some attention for yourselves. Although, most of the audience is probably here for Bette, so what you guys do is irrelevant.”
She threw her cosmetics case back in her bag. Bette followed her out of the dressing room.
“What’s the matter with you?” Bette whispered.
“I need to get out of here,” Mallory said. “Can you apologize to Agnes for me? Tell her I felt sick.”
“Yes. But don’t do anything rash, Mallory. This will pass.”
“I’m sorry I won’t see your act tonight. I know you’ll be amazing.”
Mallory made her way through the crowd starting to filter into the main room. Bette followed her and grabbed her arm.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“You better get your ass on that stage in twenty-five minutes.”
“I’m not performing tonight.”
Bette didn’t say anything, but put her hand on Mallory’s arm. The simple gesture brought her to tears.
The crowd of people buzzed around them, oblivious to their unfolding personal drama. They were excited to see the notorious Bette Noir, a hometown girl turned national celebrity. The people talked about her as if she wasn’t standing right there, within earshot. Did you hear Zebra is a hermaphrodite? That’s why Bette left her—she just found out… . Did you hear Bette stole a movie role from Zebra? Now they’re not speaking… . Did you hear Zebra fucked Angelina Jolie, and Bette’s going after Brad for revenge… .
Bette hugged her. “Take care of yourself.”
“Thanks,” she said.
She pushed her way through the crowd.
Outside the Standard Hotel, Violet gave her name to the guy with the headset at the door.
“I don’t see it on the list,” he said, brushing her aside like a fly.
“I’m with Billy Barton.”
When she’d called Billy from her apartment an hour ago, he had not sounded very happy to hear from her. Apparently, he was out with one of his celebrity friends and probably didn’t like being reminded of his dirty little secret. But she had insisted that he meet her, and he had reluctantly agreed, warning her that he only had until ten, and
then he had to “be somewhere.” Don’t worry, she’d assured him—she had to be somewhere later, too. And she did: Since Mallory never responded to her text, she made a little date with Poppy, during which she would either be celebrating the result of her meeting or taking out her frustration.
While the ’roid rager at the door made her wait, she silently fumed, thinking to herself that if Billy had failed to put her on the list he was going to seriously regret it. But the planning of her retribution was premature; sure enough, the Door Lord unhooked the red velvet rope, and to the envy and anger of everyone in the line behind her, she was granted entry to the mecca of New York City nightlife.
She made her way through the dark entranceway to the elevator, waiting alongside Josh Duhamel and an actress from Gossip Girl—she couldn’t tell which one because with their bland, generic attractiveness they truly all looked the same to her. She could tell they were both looking at her and wondering who she was. With her cropped blond hair, inked-up arms, and killer bod, people scrutinized her wherever she went. But celebrities were especially attuned to up-and-comers who might push them from their perch at the top of the food chain.
The elevator deposited them at the top floor, and Violet sauntered into the room. She’d been inside once before, to the celebration party for Gruff magazine’s “Hot” issue last spring. It was the night she’d discovered Mallory Dale. She’d never forget looking across the room and seeing her for the first time, wondering who she was, and learning—to her delight—that Mallory was a newbie burlesquer, like herself. But Mallory “Moxie” Dale was in the inner circle, with her journalist boyfriend and her new gig at the Blue Angel. Violet was still laboring in the shadows of the dom world, picking up burlesque gigs here or there at the Slipper Room or Public Assembly in Williamsburg. And then she told Billy, her dom client, that she needed a more high-profile gig. And he introduced her to Penelope Lowe at the Slit. And word got out to Agnes that there was a hot new girl in town, and Violet got the prestige gig—the Blue Angel. And that got her closer to Mallory—but not closer to her goal of more money and more recognition. And that’s why she was taking matters into her own hands. Whoever said there wasn’t a shortcut to success was an idiot. And probably not successful.